Then she watched with clinical interest as the blood-spattered breaths diminished and finally ceased, before dragging the Lieutenant’s body behind a drape.
197
Danny braved the elements to scrape the snow from the bronze plaque.
“Bingo!”
“Good one, Danny.” Matt was delighted to see color had once again returned to the boy's cheeks. “The sooner I find Claire, the happier I'll be.”
“If Uncle Tom's here, I'm first,” Danny said quietly, as Matt slowly edged the vehicle up the snow-covered drive.
“Let's leave the heroics to the police.” He could faintly see the tracks of another vehicle, which he guessed must be Pitman and Claire. “Besides, whatever Uncle Tom's connection with this place, he's hardly likely to be here now.”
Danny clutched the key tightly in his fist. “Lucky for him.”
A woman emerged from the blizzard, a hand raised for them to halt. Matt wound down his window.
“I'm sorry, the Foundation is closed.”
And you are?”
“Dr Quinlan's secretary. Might I ask your business? There were no appointments scheduled.”
“We need to see Dr Quinlan.”
Molly peered quizzically through the window at Danny. The Foundation was no place for children. “Dr Quinlan does not see anyone without an appointment.”
“This is important.”
“Besides, Dr Quinlan is not in residence today.”
“Has Lieutenant Pitman been here?”
Molly's face registered slow realization. Oh, the police officer. Yes, he's with Dr Reynolds now.”
“Did he have someone with him? Claire Meadows?”
“I didn't get the name, but there was a lady, yes.”
Relief washed over him. Claire was in safe hands. “And they're still here now?”
“Yes, but you can't just -”
“Thanks for your help.” Matt pulled away leaving Molly's objections unheard. She watched after them, then shrugged and turned into the blizzard. The sooner she got into a warm pair of slippers, the better.
“Danny, I'd prefer it if you stayed in the car, okay?” He steeled himself for the protests, but the boy just nodded. “Danny, did you hear me?”
“Yeah. No problem. I know how you're feeling just now, Matt. You'll want to be on your own when you see Claire.”
“Thanks, Danny. I'll leave the key in the ignition for the heater. Don't blast it, or you'll flatten the battery.”
He closed the door and disappeared into the snow.
198
Reynolds peered at him through the thick lenses. “Can I help you?”
“Matt Burford. You must be Dr Reynolds.” He extended a hand. “I understand Claire Meadows and DI Pitman are here with you.”
Reynolds looked around the forecourt. Alongside Pitman's car she could just see Matt's vehicle through the falling snow. Danny was laid out unseen on the back seat.
“Ah yes, the journalist. Please, come through. The Lieutenant was just explaining to me about the student who was killed. I'm very sorry.”
“He knows?” Matt felt relieved. Breaking the news to Claire would have been the hardest part.
“Of course, we feared something like this might happen,” Reynolds said as she led Matt down the corridor. “A copycat killing, in the wake of Greg Randall's arrest.”
“Copycat?”
“Of course. Don't tell me you subscribe to this ridiculous theory of the Lieutenant's, that Randall is the wrong man?”
“It's no theory, Dr Reynolds, I can assure you. We have firm evidence Uncle Tom is still at large.”
Reynolds stopped outside an unmarked door. “Really, journalists have the most vivid imaginations. Just go through and I'll bring Claire and the Lieutenant along. We can all talk through this absurd idea over a nice cup of tea.”
“Do you have coffee? I don't mind tea, but I usually... Dr Reynolds?”
The electronic bolts clicked into place.
199
Danny awoke to the sound of wheels on snow-cushioned gravel.
He sat up bleary-eyed, his mind slowly embracing reality. He shivered in the cold, sitting up in the semi-darkness, dusk advanced by the cloud-laden sky. The snow was still falling.
He could see a black Lincoln parking, and watched indifferently as an elderly man struggled into a wheelchair, before heading towards the main entrance.
Danny shrugged and returned to his reverie.
200
Reynolds watched Claire on the monitor, enjoying her distressed features, inhaler in hand, banging pointlessly on the door.
Another monitor showed Matt, bewildered, in his room.
She smiled as she spotted the newly arrived Lincoln and made for the kitchen. She knew Dr Quinlan's first task would be a nice cup of tea.
201
Danny had barely settled when he heard another vehicle approaching.
He peered disinterestedly between the front seats from his resting place, suddenly bolt upright as he saw the windowless white van drive slowly past, disappearing down the side of the Foundation building.
Instantly he was wide awake, eyes wide with fear, adrenalin pumping, mind racing.
A single track led down the side of the building. He slipped into the front seat and turned the key. The car jolted forward and stalled.
He panicked, fighting the gear-stick to find neutral. He remembered the clutch, pushing down, and slipped the gear easily.
He turned the key again and the car spluttered into life. He pushed down the clutch, rammed the gear-stick into first, and let his foot up. The car lurched forward and stalled again.
He swore out loud and tried again. This time the engine survived the first jerk forward and he slowly, carefully, steered the car across the entrance to the side track, before slamming his foot on the brake, stalling the engine. He surveyed his handiwork proudly. Nothing could pass now.
He sat for a full minute, silently pondering his options. He picked up Matt's cell phone and dialed nine-one-one.
“Emergency services.”
Danny stared into the snow. Where did he begin? He was just a kid. They weren't going to listen to him.
He knew all calls were recorded.
He said slowly and clearly into the receiver, “Police, please. Uncle Tom is at the Quinlan Foundation, Syracuse. He killed Ceri Jones in New Hampshire and now he's here. Please send help.”
He put the cell phone on the seat, leaving the connection open. He felt Ceri's key in his hand, and his mind was made up. He pulled his collar up around his ears and hesitantly stepped into the snow.
202
It was a fleeting glimpse.
Cold, staring eyes peering through the glass.
Instinctively she knew this was the face of her daughter's killer.
A split second and he was gone, leaving just the swirling snow. Claire moved closer, the finger-marks on the window confirming she hadn't imagined it. In desperation she picked up the laptop and threw it at the French windows. The snow fell in an avalanche, the computer shattering into myriad pieces, but the strengthened glass stood firm.
She grabbed the coffee table and threw it against the glass. The table legs gave way. The window stood defiant.
Reynolds sipped her beverage, watching the monitor with amusement. A sledgehammer couldn't break that glass, let alone the feeble efforts of an asthma-stricken women.
Beside her, Dr Quinlan stirred his tea calmly. An amber light flicked on, accompanied by a buzzer, indicating the rear entrance to the museum was open.
“Excellent,” he said. “Now we are all here, it's time I met our guests and brought this matter to a satisfactory conclusion.”
203
Above the howl of the wind neither could hear the other, but Claire's stricken face and the broken computer and table at the foot of the window told their own story. Danny gave a thumbs-up sign and stepped back into the snow.
He came to the van from the passenger side, slowly raising his hea
d to window level, relieved to find the cabin empty.
He opened the door and reached across to grab the keys from the ignition, at any moment expecting the deadly grip of Uncle Tom on his shoulder. He was about to throw the keys into the snow when the thought struck him.
He hesitated, not sure he wanted to know, then slowly, almost against his will, he moved to the back of the van and unlocked the rear doors.
He had an idea of what to expect from his True Crime magazines, but reality, even by the fast-fading light, was more sobering than any sanitized magazine article.
The cushioned walls, leather thongs and video camera told their own sordid story.
Fear dictated he run, but the strewn clothes in the dim light found him clambering into the vehicle, his heart racing.
The woolen leggings.
The sweatshirt.
The blouse.
The mound of blankets in the corner.
He stopped short, paralyzed with fear, not wanting to know.
He edged forward, psyching himself for the unthinkable.
The inevitable.
It was the slightest movement, but his heart leapt. He was on the mound in a second, pulling back the blankets.
Raw eyes stared back at him, tear ducts long-since exhausted, fear gouged into the child's face.
She struggled to breathe through her nose, the gag so tight Danny could barely loosen the knot. He slipped Ceri's key between the bonds, severing the cloth.
As the gag released, the child slipped into fitful bursts of tears, her partially-clothed body shaking, her words incoherent.
Danny found himself in tears with her as he clutched the traumatized girl to him.
His mind racing, he weighed the options. The child was safer in the van than out, where hypothermia would end her young life as surely as Uncle Tom himself.
He threw her clothes to her, offering comforting words that went unheard above the whine of trauma.
He closed and locked the door after him, slipping the van key into his jacket pocket, clutching Ceri's key tightly in his hand, tapping strength and reassurance from its presence. A constant reminder of his purpose there.
He knew the child's life hung in the balance.
Perhaps his too.
He tried to think what Ceri might have done in the circumstances.
Slowly, stealthily, he followed the footprints around the side of the building.
204
“You poor thing. You must be freezing.” Reynolds stretched up with difficulty and brushed the snow from his collar, gazing into his eyes.
“There’s tea in the pot. We've had visitors today, Thomas. Three of them, snooping. That nosey cop I met at Social Services? He found the exhibit. But don't worry. I've taken care of him.”
He swung his massive arms around her scrawny frame, lifting her in a bear-hug. “I saw the woman as I passed. The face is familiar.”
“Claire Meadows. Remember Rebecca?”
He licked his lips. “Every second.”
Reynolds couldn't help but smile. Then her face became serious.
“Thomas, you've been to Manchester.”
He shrugged. “The student. She was too smart for her own good.”
“You crossed the State line. We should have discussed it first.”
“She had it coming. Interfering slut.”
“We don't need this, Thomas. What's your father going to say?”
“I know what I'm doing.”
“Four bodies in three days?”
He smiled. “Five. I picked up a little something for the weekend.”
Reynolds recoiled. “My God, Thomas, you're really losing it!” Her eyes widened in worry. “The suicide complex!”
He grabbed her shoulders. “Look at me? Do I look unstable?”
“But Thomas, what about the controls? Your father's work means nothing without the controls.”
“One more won't hurt.”
“Thomas, you didn't need another girl.”
“You don't understand. This isn't just any girl. She's ten years old. Eleven at most. On the cusp of puberty. This is totty. Top totty. I tell you, this child is gagging for it.”
Reynolds leant up and kissed him on the cheek. “Thomas, you really are quite incorrigible. I love you so much.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
205
The footprints led to double doors on the newly built extension.
Danny pushed against the entrance, mortified to find it ease open, snow preventing the seal that would have allowed the electronic bolts to engage.
There could be no turning back.
He clutched the key to his chest. “This is for you, Ceri.”
The faint light from outside was extinguished as he cautiously pushed the door to, his confidence bolstered by the sure knowledge of an escape route.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness a semblance of vision slowly returned, allowing him to make out the parameters of the hall. He felt for the wall and slowly began following the boundary, feeling for a switch or door handle. His hand gripped the velvet drape, the sudden illumination of the amber spotlight startling him. The green light stood out in the gloom, and the drape furled as he hit it.
“William Bonin, known as The Freeway Killer, took the lives of more than twenty young boys in California in –”
Danny hit the red button, morbid fascination giving way to fear someone might have heard. A keen mind surmised he was in a museum of some kind, but this was no time to explore.
He moved cautiously on, the amber light following him. The next green light flashed on as he approached, but he ignored it, reaching past to pull across the drape by hand. He recognized instantly the sinister features of necrophile Patrick Kearney. He let the curtain fall, casting a glance around the countless hidden exhibits.
He felt the key in his palm and focused on the task. He made for the double doors, now just discernible in the gloom.
He paused, hesitant. He could still turn back. The police were on the way. Lieutenant Pitman was already here somewhere.
He remembered Claire's frightened face through the window.
He thought of the child in the van.
The double doors refused to budge. He could see the card-reader on the wall and felt a mixture of frustration and relief. Now he had good reason for going no further.
The streak of moisture on the floor glistened in the amber light, catching his eye.
He looked closer and saw what looked like a credit card. Guessing it might be the key-card for the door he bent down to pick it up, registering horror as he realized it was stained with blood.
Perhaps he was blasé about death by now, perhaps just driven by the adrenalin of the moment, but he remained calm as he pulled the drape aside to reveal the knife sticking from the back of the man he guessed must be Lieutenant Pitman.
He brought up the card.
There would be no turning back.
He stepped into the harsh light of the corridor, and began systematically swiping the card at each door, hesitantly pushing the door open, each time relieved to find the room empty.
206
“How do I look?”
Reynolds savored the scent of Imperial Leather. She adjusted a cuff-link. “The perfect gentleman.”
“Where's Dad?”
“Waiting for you outside Room 8. The reporter is locked in there.”
“I’m going to enjoy this.”
Reynolds gave him a playful slap. “Do behave! Your father's quite capable of dealing with Burford. You know how people demure to his professional image. But he wants you there as back-up. Just in case.”
He flexed his muscles. “I'll take care of him.”
“No. No more bloodshed today. Least of all here.”
“But the copper. You said...”
“We'll worry about that later. Just leave it to your father.”
“What was it like?”
“What?”
“The cop. How did it feel?
”
A smile spread across her face. “The knife went in so easily. I was really surprised. But Thomas, you were so right. It was everything you said it was.”
207
“Mr Burford, I'm so very sorry. There's been a breakdown in our security system.”
Matt's anger was instantly dissipated by the appearance of the wheelchair-bound pensioner in the doorway.
“The whole building was locked for a while. Dr Reynolds and I had to wait for the arrival of my son to bypass the circuit. Electronics is not my field of expertise, as I'm sure you understand.” He held out a hand. “Please accept my most sincere apologies. I'm Dr Quinlan. James Quinlan.”
Matt ignored the hand. He eyed the second figure behind the old man with suspicion. “Where's Claire?”
“Mrs Meadows? Dr Reynolds is with her now.”
His hand remained outstretched. Matt took it reluctantly, suspicion fading slowly. Being locked in an empty room had allowed his imagination to run riot, yet here was the eponymous Dr Quinlan offering heartfelt apologies and an entirely plausible explanation.
The man behind Quinlan stepped forward, a friendly smile. “I'm Dr Quinlan's son, Thomas. Pleased to meet you.”
Matt shook hands but did not reciprocate the smile. “I want to see Claire. Now.”
Dr Quinlan's eyes sparkled. “As I said, she's with Dr Reynolds. Her asthma... Claire is in good hands, I can assure you.”
“She's okay?”
“Nothing a hot cup of tea cannot put right. But I'm forgetting my manners. Can I get you some refreshments?”
“Is Pitman with them?”
“Lieutenant Pitman is searching the premises as we speak. I've allowed him a free run of the building, of course. You know how police officers are. Never satisfied until they've upturned every last stone. Was that a yes to tea? Coffee? Thomas, would you be so kind? Molly was sent home early.” To Matt, “Please, come this way. We'll find somewhere more comfortable.”
Matt followed the old man as he wheeled slowly down the corridor.
Sugar & Spice (US edition) Page 39
